King Kelson's Bride

by Katherine Kurtz

  After consulting with Morgan, Kelson asked Bishop Arilan to travel aboard Cyric’s ship with Derry Brendan, and Payne, to keep all of them that bit removed from constant contact with the Torenthis—who, save for Liam, were dispersed among the black galleys. Liam seemed more restless than the previous night, but Kelson ascribed the tension more to growing excitement rather than to any real fear.

  They sailed northward, close along the coast of Tralia, with a fair breeze, entering the broad mouth of the River Beldour in the long twilight of the summer evening to anchor still in Tralian waters, but within sight of the domed city of Furstánan, nestled in the haze of the far Torenthi shore. As Rasoul and Mátyás came aboard Létald’s vessel to dine with the royal party, the distant city began to twinkle with silvery flashes like spangles on a veil.

  “Furstánan sends her welcome with mirrors,” Rasoul told them, jutting his bearded chin in that direction as Kelson and his intimates lined the port rail with Liam to gaze and point. “They know that we bring Liam-Lajos home. After dark, you will see far greater spectacle.”

  “Are those also part of the welcome?” Kelson asked, indicating the scores of small boats sailing toward them, each bearing a torch in its bow.

  “Yes, we will see increasing numbers of them, the closer we get to Beldour. That is part of the reason for the black ships.”

  Indeed, the black galleys had deployed around the three Tralian vessels, and would allow the smaller boats no close approach, so the smaller craft gradually turned around and went back, the brightness of their torchlight seeming not to diminish for a long time, for as their distance increased, so did the darkness. As the sun sank behind the distant headlands of Corwyn far behind them, Liam gazed unspeaking at the receding boats and across to the darkening line of the far Torenthi shore. After a while, Kelson moved closer beside him. The others had drifted safely out of earshot.

  “You’ve been a long time away from home,” he observed, as Liam glanced aside at him. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Liam smiled bleakly and returned his gaze to the distant shore. “I think it was not entirely your choice,” he said. “My uncle Wencit will have had much to answer for, when he met his Maker. And had I not spent these last four years safe at the court of Gwynedd, I think it entirely possible that my fate might have held a fatal accident like my brother’s.”

  “Are you saying it was no accident?” Kelson asked.

  “No more than yesterday’s attack,” Liam said with a shrug, “and I have no proof.”

  Chilled, Kelson, too, turned his gaze toward the distant city. “Have you any suspicions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mahael?”

  “Yes,” Liam said, after a slight hesitation.

  “Any others?”

  “Maybe my uncle Teymuraz.”

  “What about Mátyás?”

  Liam shook his head quite emphatically. “No. Mátyás loves me. Of that I am certain.”

  “Enough to stand against his own brothers?” Kelson countered, turning to regard the boy, who looked at him long and searchingly, then slowly nodded.

  “Even so,” the boy said softly. “Mátyás would never betray me.”

  Behind them, a sudden, collective gasp whispered among the others gathered on the deck of the Niyyana, and both young men looked back in inquiry, then turned again to gaze out at the distant Torenthi shore. A steadily growing light had begun to play above the city’s cupolas and domes, pale and rainbow-hued, shimmering in a larger dome of iridescence like an illuminated soap bubble. Kelson, too, gasped as he saw it, but Liam only laughed softly in delight, grinning as Mátyás came to join them and sweeping an arm in the direction of the display.

  “Is all of that for me, Uncle Mátyás, or do they do this every night?” he asked.

  Mátyás nodded amiably to Kelson and leaned against the rail to Liam’s other side, relaxed and easy in a plain silk tunic of deep blue, his dark head bare. “They do it on the eve of every Sabbath, my prince, to herald the Lord’s day; but tonight, they do it in your honor—for you are their lord in this world.”

  “Who does it, Count Mátyás?” Kelson asked.

  “Why, the holy monks and sisters of Saint-Sasile,” Mátyás replied. “It is part of their ministry, to give witness to the glory of God through perpetual prayer and through this visible manifestation of their devotion. They are Deryni, of course. But perhaps you think it a frivolous use of our powers.”

  “Not at all,” Kelson said carefully, eyeing Mátyás with closer interest. “If, as I believe, such powers come from God, Who is Lord of Light, then what better way to acknowledge Him?—and in a way that gives public witness to His beauty and power.” He shrugged wistfully. “Would that my own people believed that.”

  Mátyás allowed a faint smile, glancing down at his interlaced fingers. “Your people have much to learn, I think. And perhaps mine have much to learn from yours. You are not as I imagined, Kelson of Gwynedd—though Rasoul has insisted from the beginning that you are a man of faith and honor.”

  “Lord Rasoul is generous,” Kelson replied. “But it is, indeed, my intention always to keep faith with my friends.” He paused a beat. “I would have Gwynedd and Torenth to be friends, Count. There is no reason our two lands must continue to be at enmity with one another.”

  “I fear my brothers would not agree,” Mátyás said, his tone betraying nothing.

  “No, they would not,” Kelson said quietly. “And had it been up to them, I think your nephew would not have spent these past four years at my court.” He allowed himself a careful breath, declining to mention the attack of the previous day. “But inasmuch as the choice of these present circumstances was given to none of us—not to me, not to you, or to your brothers—I think that you, at least, can appreciate the merit of allowing Liam-Lajos a chance to gain a better understanding of his neighbors to the west before he comes into his personal rule—something not enjoyed by any other King of Torenth in recent memory.”

  Mátyás smiled faintly, slowly nodding. “Boldly spoken, my lord. And I, at least, do not question your wisdom in this matter. Nor—and I will be more frank than, perhaps, my brothers would wish—nor do I think that dwelling on the long-ago claim of Festillic pretenders to your Crown serves any useful purpose.

  “Let it have died with Wencit,” he went on, turning his gaze out wearily to the rosy light still glowing above the city. “It has been more than two hundred years since Imre and Ariella passed from this mortal sphere. It has been a hundred since the death of the last Festil in the direct male line, on that bloody battlefield at Killingford, when so many good men of both our lands died—and for what?”

  Liam had gone very quiet, wide-eyed and tight-wound as Mátyás spoke, drawing back a little from between his uncle and Kelson, his dark gaze flicking appraisingly at Rasoul. The Moor’s dusky face was unreadable. Mátyás continued to gaze out across the water.

  Kelson studied all three of them for the space of a handful of heartbeats that seemed like thunder in his ears, wondering whether he was hearing only what he wanted to hear or whether he was detecting a subtle attempt on Mátyás’s part to offer solidarity, at least in Liam’s cause. He had been Truth-Reading as Mátyás spoke, and could detect no hint of any attempt to mislead, and yet . . .

  “Indeed, for what did so many good men die?” he repeated, hardly daring to breathe for fear of breaking the spell. “You will appreciate, I think, that we of Gwynedd regard the Festillic interregnum as an unfortunate period of foreign occupation, ended when Deryni led their own to throw off the invader’s yoke. Much that was less than noble came after that, but I would venture to suggest that subsequent confrontations have amply demonstrated that my people will not bow again to foreign domination. Alas, many suffered and died needlessly in the demonstration. I would have no more young men slain in furtherance of this old and worn-out contention.”

  “In this, I daresay we agree,” Mátyás said mildly, not looking at Kelson as he gestured toward the
city, where the dome of light was dimming. “But I see that our celestial display has run its course for the evening. That being the case, shall we see what delicacies the good Prince Létald has provided for our enjoyment?” He set a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Pray, be free to join us, Kelson of Gwynedd. I think you shall always be welcome at my table,” he added as he brushed past the king, so quietly that Kelson could not be certain he had heard correctly.

  The king found no further opportunity to draw out Mátyás that evening, though he later informed Morgan and Dhugal of the conversation, when Mátyás and Rasoul had returned to their galley and the others aboard the royal caïque had mostly bedded down for the night. Sitting far forward in the bow of the ship, under a canopy of stars, the three linked together in magical rapport, for the subject matter was too delicate to chance eavesdroppers, always a possibility in such close quarters.

  He and Liam spent a long while together after supper, just standing at the rail, Kelson pointed out, after the three of them had pooled their knowledge of Mátyás in light of the conversation Kelson reported. I would be very surprised if they were not in rapport. Mátyás seems to genuinely care for the boy; I think he honestly does have Liam’s best interests at heart. But whether he would stand against Mahael and Teymuraz is another question entirely. I just don’t know.

  Do you think we should tell Arilan about this? Dhugal ventured.

  Morgan’s psychic equivalent of a snort was almost audible.

  What, and have him start playing word games again, dancing around the subject?

  Perhaps not yet, Kelson allowed, taking the middle ground. But if this peace overture comes to have a bearing on what may happen in Beldour, I think there will be time enough to consult him. I know that part of my wariness comes of Mátyás’s being kin to Wencit and that line—though, as even he pointed out, any Festillic claim to Gwynedd is so watered-down by now that it hardly bears thinking about.

  Then, perhaps we wait for Mátyás to make his next move, Morgan replied. We have several days until we arrive at Beldour. Who knows what may develop in that time?

  They sailed again as soon as the predawn doldrums gave way to morning breezes, each of the Tralian ships flanked by a pair of black galleys, the Torenthi flagship whispering half a ship-length behind and to the left of Létald’s vessel. Rasoul, Mátyás, and four Torenthi guards of honor had come aboard before the morning’s sailing, the latter to take shifts by pairs as the day wore on, and various of the ranking nobles of both parties took turns attending on the two kings.

  Now that they were entering Torenthi waters, the royal party took up daily station beneath a purple canopy of state stretched over the dais on the caïque’s afterdeck. Set apart from the bustle of crew and servants, the platform became their observation post by day, where they took their ease amid plump cushions and balmy breezes, sipped cool sherbets, and sampled exotic fruits. By night, they slept beneath the stars, which seemed more numerous than Kelson had ever noted at home in Gwynedd.

  Not for generations had a Haldane king penetrated so deeply into Torenth. It seemed very different from Gwynedd. True to Rasoul’s predictions, small sailing vessels and transport craft now sallied forth from the villages and settlements strung along the riverbanks on both sides as they pressed eastward, though the black galleys kept the smaller craft at a distance. The occupants of these vessels cast brightly colored wreaths and garlands upon the water to herald Liam’s coming—or sometimes to salute Létald, while they yet skirted Tralia along the south bank—so that often the royal flotilla glided through a veritable floating garden.

  The vistas of the distant shore changed almost hourly, golden beaches and craggy cliffs giving way to gentle green meadows and fields and the occasional walled town sprawled at water’s edge, each with its domed churches and minarets glinting amid gabled rooftops and pointed towers. By the end of the second day, they had left behind the last of Tralia’s fertile fields and gently rolling hills and were pressing deeper into Torenth, with the first purpled slopes of the mountains of Marluk beginning to thrust upward to their right.

  The newness and the variety of the passing landscape provided reasonable diversion for the first day or two, with Liam eagerly pointing out features of his homeland to anyone who would listen; but even he had begun to lose enthusiasm by the end of the second day. By the third, when no wind came at dawn and the crews of all the ships must take to their oars, their progress slowed and, with it, the passage of the hours. After the first day of this, the ships began to exchange a few passengers among them, to lend variety to conversation.

  Noon of the third day found Kelson leaning against the starboard rail in something approaching boredom, with Dhugal on one side and Létald’s son, Prince Cyric, lounging on the other, his back to the river and his face upturned to the sun. Despite the lighthearted introduction Létald had given his heir at Horthánthy, the Tralian prince was of an age with Kelson and his foster brother, well prepared for his future role, and evidenced little interest in the unfolding countryside, for he had travelled widely with his father in the buffer states and along this very river, which was Tralia’s common border with Torenth, and had even been to Beldour. This particular trip marked his first official diplomatic mission, as one of the Tralian observers at Liam’s enthronement, but it soon became clear that Cyric’s personal focus was less diplomatic than matrimonial.

  “They say that it rarely gets this warm in Gwynedd, and that the weather is always a safe topic for discussion,” he remarked by way of preamble, turning his face toward Kelson and blinking in the strong sunlight. “That’s boring, though. I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to talk about the subject of marriage instead?”

  Kelson gave Cyric a wry look that did not require accompanying words, to which the Tralian prince only shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

  “I know, it must become tiresome. But I must confess that I share a certain measure of your disgruntlement, if for different reasons. Unlike you, I am eager to marry.”

  Dhugal snorted, not looking at Kelson. “The last I heard, there was no shortage of eligible princesses.”

  “No shortage at all,” Cyric agreed. “But alas for me, most of them would far rather live in hope of the hand of the King of Gwynedd than hear the suit of a mere crown prince of a Forcinn state. Frankly, I wish that your esteemed foster brother would make up his mind, so that the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

  Kelson had known Cyric since childhood, though not well, but the long acquaintance still had left an easiness between them that allowed so bold a statement. Since leaving the Ile d’Orsal, Kelson had tried to put Araxie from his mind, preferring not to think about that situation while he dealt with the potentially more deadly problem regarding Liam; but he well knew what Cyric was trying to say. The Orsal’s line were a hot-blooded and passionate lot, inclined to marry young and breed prolifically. Only lately had Kelson begun to be aware that his own reticence regarding marriage was beginning to affect the matrimonial plans of those of lesser station.

  “Was there any particular princess you had in mind?” he asked, faintly amused, and keeping his tone casual.

  Cyric gave an exaggerated yawn behind one languidly raised hand and turned to gaze down at the oars moving with hypnotic rhythm beneath them, trying not to look like he really cared.

  “Well, my Haldane cousins are already spoken for,” he said airily. “Richelle will be married to Meara by the end of summer, and I expect that Araxie will marry Cuan of Howicce; they’ve been courting for ages. I’d briefly considered his cousin, the Princess Gwenlian—but she’ll be Queen of Llannedd if her brother produces no male heir, and that would present problems for me. I’ll be Prince of Tralia one day, so I couldn’t live with her in Llannedd; nor could the Queen of Llannedd live here in Tralia.

  “Actually, I was thinking of Noelie Ramsay—unless, of course, you’re looking in that direction. That’s what they’re saying: that you’re waiting for her brother and Richelle to wed,
and that a betrothal will soon follow.”

  “Is that what they’re saying?” Kelson said, feeling faintly sorry for Cyric, who would end up with none of the ladies he had named.

  Cyric ducked his head, suddenly embarrassed. “Now you think I’m foolish,” he murmured. “Actually, there are several lesser ladies I could become fond of—but it’s as easy to like a rich wife as a poor one. You aren’t going to give me any hint, are you?”

  “Sorry,” Kelson said, with what he hoped was sufficient finality. “I must see Liam safely enthroned first. After that, I’ll worry about getting married.”

  As soon as he could, he found excuse to leave both companions and move far forward onto the prow of the ship, where he gazed long into the lazy curl of wave folding back from the bow, trying to visualize Araxie’s face but seeing only Rothana’s.

  The afternoon stretched on, close and oppressive, with no breath of air and no prospect of any, as the oarsmen kept a steady rhythm, to the slow, even beat of the pace drums, throbbing like the heartbeat of the land. After a while, Kelson rejoined the others under the state canopy to pick halfheartedly at bread and olives and sip at chilled Fianna wine, but it was too warm to eat. Off to their left, the southernmost reaches of the great fertile crescent that was the Torenthi heartland stretched northward in a great, rolling plain of undulating wheat and grain, all hazed in the summer heat. During the hottest part of the afternoon, Kelson sprawled with the others amid the piles of cushions beneath the purple canopy and tried to doze, while servants stirred the still air with feathered fans.

  Not until dusk did a faint breeze begin to rise—enough to begin easing the oppressive heat, and to raise sail, but not enough to let the oarsmen stand down. Nonetheless, their silent convoy made far better progress in the several hours before the lowering darkness obliged them to halt for the night.